


Baptisms of Fire

by dornfelder



Series: Brothers in Arms [4]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant, episode 3.09, past Eleanor Guthrie/Charles Vane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 23:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: It will all be over in a moment.What matters is that no one owns him, anymore. Not Albinus, not Teach. Not Eleanor.As for Flint …You'll have to be my blade,he thinks.My vengeance.





	Baptisms of Fire

The cell they've brought him in isn't the one where he kept the girl. It has a window, for one, and it also lacks the damp, rotten straw, the smell of mold and mildew. The fort, with its thick walls of stone and mortar, is a cool place – cool by Nassau's standards, if nothing else.

Charles has never been to England. He's never seen snow, has never felt the need to dress in wool and furs to protect himself from the cold. Often, he's wondered what it would be like – a bit of idle curiosity, realizing that there were so many things out there he'd never experience, places he'd never see. He's never dwelt on it, though, what use is it to contemplate things that will never come to pass?

The governor's men tended to the wound in his leg to stop him from bleeding out, but left his other injuries untreated. They brought him water and a slice of bread. All in all, Charles has been in worse places, under worse conditions, and this … this is nothing.

News of his arrest will have spread through the town by now. His capture is a poor substitute for a cache full of gems, but the people of Nassau will never know about that – they'll only hear that the governor caught Captain Vane.

Charles sits, and waits; pisses against the wall in the far corner beside the door, and tries not to think of anything. The others will have made it back to the Walrus, they'll be well underway by now, back on Mr. Scott's island in a day or two.

Flint will keep Anne and Jack from doing anything foolish – not that Anne would, but Jack just might. Certainly, Flint knows better than that, and won't return – not now, with the treasure in his hold that has the possibility to make all the difference. The last of the Spanish gold.

Flint is not stupid enough to come and try to free Charles, not when he knows what's good for him. Charles doesn't want him to.

He doesn't.

**********

He looks at Eleanor and thinks, _you've never been more beautiful._ He looks at Eleanor and thinks, _you don't look like you_. She's composed, guarded. _Chastened_. Before, there had always been a kind of exuberance radiating from her.

He wants to ask her, _did you miss me? Because I missed you. More than I thought I would. He wants to ask, what did they do to you, did they touch you, did they lay a hand on you? Do I have to kill them all?_ He wants to ask, _are you fucking him?_

She's never had another man but him. Not until she left the island, in any case. It wasn't for want of offers – which man in Nassau, provided he could get it up for a woman at all, wouldn't want her? A couple of years ago, Charles had briefly thought she was fucking Flint. But there was that puritan woman Flint played house with, or the witch who had him under her spell, depending on who you asked. And Charles had told himself that Flint was just too _noble_ to try and seduce Eleanor.

Oh, the irony. There is nothing noble about Flint when he truly wants someone, nothing restrained once you manage to shatter his defenses. Not an easy thing to do, but Charles is proof that it can be done. He's always been good at getting under Flint's skin. Just as he's been good at getting under hers.

So that's what he does – because he can, and because he wants to, because he needs to know that they are still the same, where it matters, in the marrow of their bones, the tendons of their flesh, the clashing of wills.

Their curse – the very thing that defines them – is that they bring out the worst in each other, without fail. The best too, on occasion, though it seems that those days are now past.

But still they're uniquely capable of destroying each other.

Charles tears her apart with his words until she throws herself at him, hitting him with her bare fists. The plain flares, acutely, then abates, leaving him hurting.

It would have been so easy to intercept her blow – to grab her, pull her toward him and kiss her, or even kill her, her delicate neck snapping under this hands.

Even now, it would be like turning the knife against himself.

The words that follow are no less brutal. There's very little satisfaction in knowing that he's driven her to do this, that he can still get under her skin – that he knows her like no one else does.

If it is a victory at all, it's a hollow one.

**********

He licks his lips and tastes iron where Eleanor left him bleeding. The pain in his stomach has dulled down to a faint ache, one of many. His leg is throbbing. Charles focuses on the stone, hard and real under his thighs, grounding.

_A mother's love._

He has no memories of his mother. There was a woman, a relative. An aunt, maybe; his mother's younger sister? She took care of him when he was little. A small settlement at the coast, somewhere in the colonies. Charles recalls playing in a sunny dirt yard with other children. They'd been tending goats and chickens during the day.

The women used to do laundry, down by the river. Skirts lifted, legs bared to the sun, bending down to submerge the fabric, wringing it, splashing water everywhere. The sun, glittering on the river's surface, trees at a distance. Long afternoons running across the corn fields, scaring off crows.

An old woman sometimes told them stories from an ancient book. Tales of Moses and Abraham, someone called Daniel. Then there was a loud, angry man who used to yell at the children; they sometimes hid behind the barn when they saw him approach.

Charles can still recall the feeling of weaving splits in his hand – they'd begun to teach him how to make baskets when the raid happened and Albinus took him.

Memories of that time are clouded in terror. Albinus and his ship, men, so many men – men who held him down, big, broad hands locked around his throat. The camp, a place full of unspoken rules, always trying to escape the whip. He avoided Tanner, the overseer, as best as he could, but sometimes it was easier to just comply.

There was a woman who took a liking to him. Old Sally the Cook, who commanded respect, even amongst those men, with sharp knives and a sharper tongue.

Charles had been thirteen or fourteen when Teach bought him – not him, specifically; he'd only been a part of a bargain Teach had struck with Albinus. Wood, supplies, men, all in exchange for goods that Albinus kept for himself.

Somehow, over the span of a couple of months, he succeeded in gaining Teach's attention. Back then, when Teach started to favor him, Charles would have let himself be hacked to pieces for him, in sheer gratitude and devotion. But Teach had no use for devotion, only for loyalty, and Charles had learned all he could from him, had grown more confident, and then inevitably, begun to feel resentment. Just a little. Just enough.

And then there had been Eleanor.

The man he is – he mostly made himself, once Teach gave him the opportunity. The man he is barely remembers the face of the woman who raised him; the man he is doesn't know how to weave baskets, only vaguely recalls some of the tales from the Bible. The man he is knows how to wield a sword, how to chart a course, how to fire a pistol. He can even read and write, though it admittedly takes some effort for him to do so.

Perhaps Eleanor is right, and he's always been lacking something. It doesn't feel that way. How would he know?

**********

The so-called trial is over quickly. Neither Eleanor nor Rogers are in the room, at least not in a place where Charles, shackled to a wooden bench with a high back, can see them.

The newly appointed judge, one of the plantation owners, is all too eager to curry favor with the new governor. Vane laughs at him, tells him, "Eleanor Guthrie wants me to hang where she can see it, is that it? And she got you you to do it for her. How that must feel like for her, to know that her power now relies on men like you. How she despised you, each and every one of you. How the tides have turned."

"You will be silent, sir," one of the redcoats hisses. He's new here, isn't he, they all are. They don't know him, though they may have heard of him – in London, probably. News from the Bahama islands – of the prizes he has taken, of Charles Town, of the raids along the coast. The juiciest bits of gossip travel fastest. But the tales of his exploits are not enough to instill fear in their hearts – not when they see him like this, in chains, just one man in dirty clothes, dressed, one of them hisses, not bothering to hide it, like a savage.

"Get it over with," Charles says with a sneer. "We all know what the sentence will be."

"Do you confess to the charges brought against you?"

"Why not?" Charles tilts his head to the side. He stares at the judge, who stares at his chest, not quite meeting his eyes, and shifts his weight. "I did all these things, and more. Do you know that I was there when Thompson, your former governor, fled Nassau? I witnessed it all; where were you?" He smiles at the judge. "I think you must have been hiding somewhere in the inland, on your guarded plantation, hoping we would be content taking Nassau town. So that you could keep your wealth. Your land. Your slaves, men and women you claim to own."

That's when the judge finally lifts his head and meets his gaze – exasperation winning out over fear.

"So you _do_ confess to all these things?" the judge asks, and Charles laughs, loudly, and leans against the back of the wooden bench, chains clinking. He doesn't say anything at all.

The sentence, of course, is death.

**********

After the priest has left him, there is nothing left to do but wait. They bring him a meal, some kind of bread, a bit of cured beef, and water. He eats, he drinks, because whyever not?

Just like Eleanor's, the priest's words stay with him. It's true; he's turned women into widows, children into orphans. Over the years, Charles has killed more men than he can count. Even now, he doesn't regret it, not exactly.

When he closes his eyes, the Spanish prize and the nameless Spanish seaman who almost beat him appear in front of him. A man who didn't fight for honor or pride, but only because he couldn't afford not to. There's nothing glorious in it, is there? Yet it is the only thing Charles knows how to do, that comes naturally to him: steal, and fight, and kill.

**********

The noose around his neck, the crowd murmuring. Some of the girls from the brothel stare at him with wide, anxious eyes. They, at least, do not appear too eager to see him hang.

Charles' heart is pounding in his ears. It’s surprisingly difficult not to struggle as he feels the rope, the heavy weight of it, like a collar. But it's not a sign of ownership, quite the opposite. The best thing he can do is die here and now, because if he does, his death will be a tool that Flint will be know how to make use of. A sudden, fierce burst of _something_ when he thinks of Flint. A stray memory: Flint's hand on his skin, pushing back his hair, a callused thumb on the nape of his neck, sliding down.

A feeling Charles doesn’t want to name. Doesn't _need_ to name; it will all be over in a moment.

What matters is that no one owns him, anymore: Not Albinus, not Teach. Not Eleanor.

As for Flint … _You'll have to be my blade,_ he thinks. _My vengeance._

He can taste it, bitter and sharp in his throat, more sustainable, certainly, than useless feelings like regret or fear. Hatred and fury. He looks at Eleanor and directs it all at her while she meets his gaze with all the unwavering resolve she can muster. She's not giving an inch.

Not that he expected anything else.

The sun on Nassau’s market square, in front of the governor’s residence, color and scent, everything oddly vivid now. Charkes draws a deep breath.

And then, a shrill whistle.

The crowd falls silent, then a murmur spreads. Confusion, tension, rising – the redcoats in high alert, heads turning around –

Standing on the cart has its advantages. Charles sees them, clearly, as they make their slow approach, Anne, distinctive with her hair, Billy Bones, tall and strong, and a couple of men Charles doesn't know by name.

And Flint.

Flint, holding a knife to the throat of a man in a linen shift with long, lank hair. Using him as a shield. A man who appears deadly pale and barely conscious.

Flint, that crazy motherfucker, bloodied and grim. He seeks out Charles' eyes. No smile, not even a blink, just a steady, unwavering calm, the slightest, barely noticeable nod.

When Flint turns around, he focuses solely on Eleanor.

"Take the noose off him and let him go," Flint says. "Or proceed; in which case the governor dies."

"No," one of the lords immediately protests, and the muskets aimed in Flint's direction are at the verge of firing – confusion, fear, fury among the redcoats, with a hint of indecision, just enough to prolong the moment.

The governor – if it’s really him – doesn't say anything. He appears to be trembling, weakened by … not blood loss; he’s unharmed. _Fever._

"I am Captain Flint," Flint says, looking at the British soldiers, seemingly unconcerned. "A warning has been issued that every hanging of a pirate in the West Indies would be answered with the death of the magistrate who carried out the sentence."

Billy, beside him, stares at Charles, determination radiating from him. Anne keeps an eye on Flint and the Governor, and behind them – Featherstone, Jack's friend, and some others, armed and still.

Flint continues, letting his gaze wander over the crowd. "When your governor arrived at these shores, he offered each pirate an unconditional pardon. He broke that promise. He gave his word to return law and order to Nassau. He broke that promise too. Instead of giving Charles Vane a fair trial, he sentenced him to death in the quiet of the night."

Charles can feel the minute shift among the crowd, the undercurrent. Eleanor looks shocked, her eyes fixed on Flint as if she’s seeing a ghost. Of course, she’s used to a different Flint – the man she knew before Charles Town who hadn’t yet turned into stone. Near-starvation has left Flint hollow-eyed and gaunt, the swagger of a man with purpose replaced by the heavy footfall of a man who knows only revenge, who will see it through, entirely without joy. Eleanor has missed his transformation, just as Flint has missed hers – months and events that have turned former allies into foes. For Eleanor, this must come as a shock; despite Flint's meeting with the governor, she probably still believes Flint could be made to see reason. Could be made to kneel, to accept the collar.

"Or maybe," Flint says, still looking directly at Eleanor. She has gone very pale and keeps staring at him, her former ally, the pirate captain whose judgment she used to trust before anyone else's. "Maybe it wasn't the governor who sentenced Captain Vane do death." He pulls at Rogers’ hair, baring his glistening, pale face to the crowd. Making everyone see that the man is in no condition to talk or walk, let alone to issue orders. "Not the governor who made a mockery of the law he sought to re-introduce to this island."

As the crowd turns on Eleanor, it's a slow process, almost horrifying to watch. If only there wasn't this equally horrifying satisfaction in Charles, that ugly, snarling voice joining the chorus.

"Not the governor," Flint continues, every word measured, "who had reason do deny a pardon to one man, and one man only. A man who had personally offended Eleanor Guthrie."

"I will put an end to this," one of the officers says in the ensuing silence, lifting his musket.

One of the lords immediately grabs his shoulder. "He's holding a knife to the governor's throat, for God's sake!"

Because without their lords, without their precious titles, they are nothing. Charles bares his teeth. _Sheep, the lot of them._

Flint's voice carries effortlessly. A British officer, raised to command. "A woman who, as she once used Charles Vane as her protector, now hides behind the governor's seal and power."

A murmur, growing louder. As much as the people of Nassau like their law and order, they hate Eleanor Guthrie even more. Flint reminds them of it, relies upon old grudges to turn into renewed hatred.

Flint is done with the crowd. His gaze finds the redcoats and the men in charge of them. "If you want Governor Rogers to live, you will release Captain Vane. You will give us a ship to leave the island, to a destination you are welcome to follow us to, if you are brave enough and determined enough. Once out of reach of your guns, we will exchange Governor Rogers for Captain Vane, and depart peacefully. In the battles to come, we will fight the governor. We will fight the men who stand beside him. We will _not_ fight the people of Nassau."

"Why would we believe you?", one of the lords says. Charles recalls seeing him at the trial, whispering into the judge's ear. "You are a criminal. A man without honor."

Charles takes a step forward, right up to the edge of the cart. Heads turn toward him, people falling silent in expectation.

"You have Captain Flint's word," he says. "And you have mine."

"The word of a pirate?" The man sneers at him.

He doesn't know that he's just handed them a victory sweeter than words could ever convey. Charles smiles. Smiles in a way that makes the other man blanch, because even though he doesn't know Charles Vane, he knows a predator when he sees one.

Charles turns his head, slowly, to look at the crowd. He makes a show of it as he lets his gaze fall and linger on familiar faces, turned toward him in rapt attention. Men he's known half his life. Women whose path he has crossed a hundred times, who have pointed at him and whispered things behind his back. Their daughters, who have been told to stay away from him and his men, whom he has given lazy smiles when he caught them looking. The traders, the merchants, the craftsmen. The fishermen, the farmers, the washerwomen. And of course, the crews, old and new.

"The word," he says, making every syllable count, "of Captain Flint and Captain Vane. Does it look like anyone here – anyone who knows us at all – believes that _we_ are not going to keep our promises?"

**********

By the time the conditions and terms of the exchange are agreed upon, Eleanor has disappeared into the house, and one of the British officers has taken charge. They take the noose from Charles' neck, surround him with soldiers, hostile and disdainful but obedient. He's escorted to the harbor, loses sight of Flint and the others, can only surmise that things are going well according to plans. A ketch is readied for Flint while a launch with Charles and his escorts proceeds toward the open sea. Charles doesn't look back at the ketch, doesn't look back at the governor's residence. Instead, he looks at the open sea and takes a deep, steadying breath.

So many things can still go wrong. He remains focused on the moment, preparing for the instant he might have to act – fight the men guarding him, or jump overboard. The weight of the chains will be manageable, if only for a short while.

It's difficult to guess at the distance, to tell for sure when they are out of reach of the guns. The launch comes to a halt, and when Charles turns his head at last, the ketch is right behind them. The exchange is prepared: Charles sees Flint's and Anne's tense faces as the governor is lowered into a small skiff. The guards take off the chains and push Charles into another one, a pair of oars ready for him. It only takes a couple of pulls – stretching his arms, feeling the stiffness dissolve – until he passes the skiff with the governor's prone form in it. Strands of hair stick to Rogers' forehead, his head is lolling from side to side as he mumbles something in his fevered dreams, lips pale and cracked. Then Charles has reached the ketch and climbs up the ladder, holding his breath. He expects to be shot at any second. But it appears the redcoats are busy hauling in the skiff.

His feet hit the deck. Billy and his men are cheering while Flint, his back to Charles, gives terse orders that everyone hastens to obey. The ketch rapidly gains speed. In Nassau town, another ship is alreary setting sail.

Charles turns around, back from the rail. And comes face to face with Flint.

" _Fuck you_ ," he snarls, and hits him, a punch to his stomach. With a pained grunt, Flint doubles over. Stumbles back to assume a defensive position, eyes wide and bright as he stares at Charles.

Whatever reaction he has been prepared for, this is clearly not it.

Charles bares his teeth. "You endangered the whole bloody plan –"

"Told you he was going to kill us," Anne says.

Charles spins around. She's welll out of reach – good for her. She's not truly concerned, but she stays out of reach. He knows that tilt to her mouth, the one saying she's hiding a reluctant smile. Not as indifferent as she pretends, then. Anne doesn't like him, not really, but he's someone she knows. Trusts, if only because Jack does.

At least Jack isn't here. Charles would gladly wring his neck.

He turns to face Flint again, who seems to have recovered form his blow, taking a step back as Charles glares at him.

"You stupid fuck," Charles says, "you son of a bitch. Why did you do that?" He meets Flint's wide, green gaze, and then suddenly his breath leaves him in a moment of stillness, of recognition, because Flint –

"Shit," Charles says, more quietly than before. And then, because Flint is still looking at him _like that_ , Charles takes a step toward him, puts his hands on his shoulders, pulls him close. Kisses him, in full view of Anne and Billy and the redcoats, if they bother to look.

Flint turns to stone under his hands, and it won't stand.

Charles tilts his head to the side for a better angle. He cups Flint's shorn head with one hand, smiles into the kiss, because as far as revenge goes, this is much better than hitting Flint. Far more effective in making his point.

If that stupid fucker insists on making grand gestures for Charles’ sake, then this is what he gets in return.

Flint makes a quiet noise, something between a sigh and a sob. It's a noise that Charles, suddenly, irrationally, hopes no one else has heard. Then Flint puts his arms around Charles' shoulders and kisses him back.

Through the sudden, devastating heat and slickness of their kiss, Charles barely notices the dead silence around them.

Flint breaks away from him, inhales, sharply, and then presses their foreheads together, chest heaving. "I … I _couldn't_." 

Charles understands, understands perfectly, tigthens his grip on Flint's shoulders. It's hard to believe he is free; harder that Flint came back for him, that whatever this is, between them, is something Flint is willing to fight for.

"I know," he says at last, and then – because while he may be daring enough to kiss Flint in broad daylight, he's not brave enough to reveal just how much he wants, needs to keep him close right now – he pushes Flint away and walks over to the stern to stare at the island that they are leaving behind, the familiar sight of the fort, ships occupying the harbor.

Long moments pass before Flint comes to stand beside him. It's a little maddening to know how close he is, mere inches between them.

"We _will_ return," Flint says quiety, more to himself than to Charles.

"If we do not win against the governor's forces -"

"Then we'll die knowing that we were tryinng to accomplish something. That we were not alone in this fight."

Charles exhales deeply, gives a half-shrug, a little hum. He closes his eyes, breathes in the salty air, along with the smell of canvas and damp wood and of the man beside him, who might just be the one thing that Charles can count on, miraculous as is is, the man he might be content to walk beside on their journey into the unknown.


End file.
